Chapter 970

Rosalind's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her delicate features twisted in a look of wounded vulnerability that would have melted any man's heart.

But Lucian appeared utterly unbothered. Having witnessed the entire exchange, his lips curled into an amused smirk.

"You knew exactly what she's like," he drawled, leaning against the car door with effortless arrogance. "And yet you still poked the bear. What did you expect?"

Isabella gaped at him. Was he serious? No outrage, no defense—just this infuriating indifference?

Her voice trembled. "Mr. Graves—"

He cut her off with a careless wave. "Get in or don’t. If you’d rather not share a car with her, call a cab."

With that, he slid into the driver’s seat without another glance.

Isabella stood frozen, the wind whipping strands of her perfectly styled hair loose.

Rage simmered beneath her carefully constructed composure. But she refused to back down. If she let them ride alone together, who knew what might happen?

She yanked open the back door and climbed in.

Rosalind had to admit—Isabella had nerve. Most people would have slunk away in humiliation after that slap.

Lucian pressed the accelerator, and the sleek car purred to life, gliding onto the road with effortless grace.

Silence settled between them. Rosalind had no intention of speaking first. She hadn’t started this.

But Isabella, ever the provocateur, couldn’t resist. "Ms. Fairchild, you really do have a vicious streak. Resorting to violence so easily—it’s unsettling."

Rosalind scoffed. "Funny. You’re the first person I’ve ever hit. Maybe instead of criticizing me, you should reflect on why you provoked me in the first place."

Isabella’s lips pressed into a thin line.

She huffed, crossing her arms. "Your temper is legendary. I suppose being a spoiled heiress does that to a person. Honestly, who could possibly tolerate you?"

Rosalind arched a brow.

She turned to Lucian, her gaze sharp. "She’s talking about you. Can you tolerate me?"

Lucian glanced at her, taking in the fire in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin. Something flickered in his expression—something dangerously close to fondness.

A low chuckle escaped him.

Rosalind scowled. "What’s so funny?"

Isabella sneered. "He’s speechless at your audacity."

Without hesitation, Rosalind reached over and pinched Lucian’s arm—hard.

"Ow," he protested, though his smirk didn’t fade.

Isabella gasped. "How dare you hurt him?"

Rosalind grinned. "Mr. Graves, can I hurt you?"

Lucian’s lips curved further. "By all means. Just go easy on me—I’m innocent."

Isabella’s jaw dropped.

Since when did Lucian Graves indulge anyone like this?

Rosalind tilted her head. "Your secretary claims no man could ever put up with me—"

"I can," Lucian interrupted, his voice dropping into that velvet-rich tone that sent shivers down her spine.

Then, with a look that could only be described as devastatingly tender, he added, "Is that good enough for you, darling?"

The words wrapped around her like an embrace—warm, possessive, and utterly intoxicating.